The armored car tore out of the industrial district, tires screeching on the wet pavement.
Evelina sat huddled in the corner of the leather seat, her hands clutching the torn fabric of her skirt where Dante had ripped it. She was shaking, not from cold, but from the residual adrenaline of the violence in the warehouse.
Dante sat on the other side. He was staring out the window, his jaw locked so tight a muscle feathered frantically in his cheek. He looked like a man holding back a landslide.
“You lied to him,” Evelina whispered. The silence was choking her; she had to break it. “You told him I was your wife.”
Dante turned his head slowly. His eyes were black voids.
“I told him what he needed to hear to keep him breathing,” Dante said. His voice was a low, rough rasp. “If I hadn’t clai
